


Faithful

by johnsarmylady



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance, lots of loving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 02:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's over - Moriarty's network has finally been destroyed, and Sherlock wants to return home to John. Primed by a collection of scrap books, he decides he's been away too long - that now is the time to go back to 221B Baker Street</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faithful

In the dining room of Mycroft Holmes’ Knightsbridge house a tall, thin figure sat poring over meticulously presented scrap books.

There were several, the first of which dated from three months after his supposed ‘suicide’, and documented the way the press hounded his friend on a daily basis until he eventually gave in and agreed to be interviewed.

They didn’t have it all their own way however and soon learned that John Watson was not a man to be messed with.

Sherlock smiled as he read the first salvo fired from John’s canon battery – every tabloid and broadsheet had to agree to publish, free of charge, a full page ‘advertisement’. 

In the form of a statement of intent, it had outlined how brilliant Sherlock had been, how he had often solved cases for the police – unpaid – just for the joy of puzzle solving.

He went on to say how, no matter what people said or believed, no matter what obstacles were thrust in his way, he would prove – beyond a shadow of a doubt – that Sherlock Holmes had not been a fraud, that each case he had investigated had been genuine, and that James Moriarty had been the protagonist they had always claimed him to be.

And that was only the beginning. One by one, the journalists were invited into 221B for an interview. Each newspaper was given a different case – from perpetration to incarceration – and John showed them how it had been solved.

All the while, even without Mycroft’s influence smoothing the way, he worked hard to make good his promise, and one by one their ‘theories’ of how Sherlock staged the crimes himself were blown apart, until eventually the chief Constable himself was  forced to make a public statement completely exonerating the consulting detective.

The books told the whole story – well, almost the whole story.

Sherlock stood, shrugged into his Belstaff and looked squarely at his brother.

“It’s time.” He said quietly.

“Yes it is.” Mycroft held up his hand as Sherlock started to move away from the table. “Take care how you handle this Sherlock; this has affected him deeply…”

“I can see that!” the resurrected detective snarled, and then his expression softened as he looked back down at the grainy newspaper photograph of the blond doctor.

“I know every expression, every inch of that face as well as I know my own. Believe me, I wish I didn’t have to see the pain and suffering I see in those eyes.” Shaking himself out of his reverie he finally moved towards the door. “I have been away for too long – it’s time to end it, time to go home.”

xXx

The flat was dark and cold by the time John arrived home.  Hanging up his coat and kicking off his shoes, he moved, surefooted, through the flat, all the while wondering why he had the feeling that something was different – although whether that was something about the flat or about himself he wasn’t sure.

Of late it had become his habit on nights like this to simply make himself a cup of tea and some toast, and take it to bed with him, but tonight there was something in the air – he grinned at himself for being fanciful – tonight he thought he’d light a fire, have a proper meal, and sit and watch some crap telly the way he used to before Sherlock died. Once the kindling and newspaper had caught, John carefully laid coal on top, dusted off his hands and wandered through to the still dark kitchen.

Kettle filled, he was about to switch it on when a soft noise behind him raised his hackles and kick-started his adrenalin.

“I always suspected it might be the case,” the deep baritone spoke from the darkest corner of the kitchen. “But it is pleasing to be proved right.”

John remained where he was, facing the wall; tense, not really certain he believed what he was hearing, his body ready to fight or flee.

“Proved right about what?” His voice came out soft, and slightly hoarse.

“That you truly live the RAMC motto – **In Arduis Fidelis**.”

“Faithful in Adversity.” John whispered.

“And you have been faithful John, more faithful than any man deserves.” Sherlock stepped forward, out of the shadows, but still John faced away from him.

The silence stretched.

Forcing his shaking hand to move John depressed the switch on the kettle, and then watched the light glow red in the dimness of the room, listened to the sound of the element heating, echoing in the stillness.

“And you.” He said finally. “You appear to have lived.  And lived up to your motto.”

“Servimus Deo, et Patriae?” Sherlock frowned. “I don’t….”

“No, not the Holmes family motto, the Sherlock motto.” John shifted his weight slightly as he spoke. “You know, the one that says ‘Prat Unto The Last’”

Without warning he spun around, shoving the taller man back against the wall, his forearm pushing against his throat.

“Where the FUCK have you been?” he snarled into the startled face before him.  “Two years, Sherlock! Two fucking lonely, painful, devastating years.  I thought you were dead – you made me believe you were dead.”

A choking sound brought the older man to his senses, and he released the pressure that threatened to incapacitate his friend.  He stepped away, anger still evident in every line of his body.

“Will you let me explain?” Sherlock said, rubbing at his abused throat.

“No.”

“No?”

“You heard me.” John pointed to the fridge. “You can stand beside that while I heat up the casserole Mrs Hudson made for me. When you’ve eaten, then and only then I’ll let you explain, and your reasons had better be good, none of your usual bullshit.”

“I never…”

“Yes, you do, whenever and wherever you think you can get away with it.”  Smirking at Sherlock’s shocked expression, he added “And I have spent a considerable amount of time since you dived off St Bart’s in the company of journalists, so my bullshit detector is well tuned.”

The younger man just nodded and stood back to watch his friend prepare the food, automatically reaching out to accept the mug of tea that was thrust into his hands as if the routine had never been broken.

xXx

The dinner was eaten in silence, each man sitting in his usual chair by the fireside. And if Sherlock noticed that John had hardly been able to take his eyes off him he said nothing, nor did he comment when the other man surreptitiously wiped away an errant tear as it chased down his cheek.

When both men were finished, and the bowls cleared away, John sat back down and looked across at the consulting detective.

“I…” Sherlock cleared his throat. “I know that an apology is not nearly good enough, but let me at least start there. I’m so sorry John, for not telling you, for making you watch, for the two years thinking I was dead…”

“Why did you?”

“I knew Moriarty would settle for nothing less than my death, but I didn’t understand what was at stake if I beat him.” Seeing John’s puzzled look he shook his head. “No, I didn’t kill him John, although I would have done.  He killed himself, just after he told me that if I didn’t jump he would kill the three people closest to me – Mrs Hudson, Lestrade…..and you.”

“Me?  How?  I mean, if he was dead…”

Sherlock drew in a deep breath and took John, step by step, through what he had learned on the rooftop, explained how he had made crude contingency plans which he had hoped never to have to use, he even confessed that both Molly and Mycroft had been aware that he was alive, and that it was because it had been necessary to elicit a realistic reaction from John that he had not been able to include him in the plan.

As he talked about the travel, the thousands of miles he had covered in order to rid the world of Moriarty’s network, and the longing to get the job done so that he could come back home Sherlock stared into the flames in the hearth, as if he could see pictured there the journey he had taken two years to complete. 

When he finished, the silence seemed to stretch to infinity, and when John made no comment Sherlock looked up to see the blond doctor sitting with his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking, obviously distressed.

In a flash he was out of his chair and kneeling at the older man’s feet, his long arms wrapped around him, pulling him close.

“John, I’m so sorry.” He whispered fervently as he brought his lips down to kiss the blond head. “I would have given anything to spare you those two years – I worked as fast as I could to come home – I missed you so much.”

The more he spoke, the tighter he held him, the more the other man trembled, until in distress himself Sherlock started to pull away.

“No, don’t you dare.” Hands that had moments earlier been covering the doctor’s face now clutched at the front of Sherlock’s shirt. “Don’t you dare leave me again.”

“Never.” Sherlock moved closer, pulling John tighter against him. “I promise.”

For a long while they just stayed like that, holding each other, John breathing in the familiar scent of Sherlock as he pressed his face into the pale skin of the other man’s neck, while Sherlock revelled in the feel of John’s hair under his cheek, noting the slightly coarser texture of the silver hairs now to be found among the gold.

“Jesus, I’m tired!” John exclaimed softly, his lips tickling the skin at Sherlock’s throat.

The younger man pulled back, rising to his feet and pulling the smaller man with him.

“You need to sleep John; none of this has been easy for you.  I’ll come back tomorrow, and we can talk again.”

John’s head shot up, and Sherlock could see the flickering firelight reflected in his dark blue eyes as they stared up at him, drinking in the sight of him standing once more in the home they had shared.

“No, you’ll stay, because I can’t be certain how I’ll react if I wake up again without you beside me.” Slowly John’s hand slid up to cup Sherlock’s cheek, moving round to tangle in the dark curls and pull him down into a deep and desperate kiss.

It was the welcome Sherlock had wanted, but had more or less convinced himself it wouldn’t happen, and now his own emotions started to overwhelm him as he realised it was over – finally it was finished and he was truly home.

xXx

There was a feeling of newness in the way the two men moved to the bedroom that they had shared before Moriarty ripped their world apart, in the way they undressed each other with soft moves and gentle hands.

With hungry eyes they devoured the familiar and the new, the lost weight here, the new scars there, yet neither felt it was time to discuss the changes, for now they lost in each other. 

Where eyes had gone now hands followed, the warmth of skin on skin breaking down the last of their emotional barriers, and soon they were entwined beneath the duvet, touching and tasting, holding, caressing then cleaving together, the sounds of their lovemaking building to a crescendo that shattered the calm of the night, dying gradually to soft moans and satisfied sighs.

“You still love me.” There was wonder in Sherlocks voice.

“Did you expect I would forget you?” John asked, nuzzling into the other man’s neck. “My love truly lives the Watson family motto.”

“Inspirata Floruit?”

“It has flourished beyond expectation.”

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Servimus Deo, et Patriae is Latin, and roughly translated means We Serve God and Country, and is a totally fictitious motto for the Holmes family.


End file.
